


hours in america

by orphan_account



Series: game on [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Why Do I Write Things Ever, based on an episode of the west wing, presidential campaign - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliza, Aaron, and Alexander get left behind after a campaign stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hours in america

**Author's Note:**

> so.  
> i was watching the west wing, like i've unfortunately been doing a lot of lately, and i got to 4x01/4x02 and immediately thought of this abomination. so, there's the plot, the inspiration for a lot of scenes, etc. you don't need to have seen the show to get this fic! 
> 
> the roles of certain characters draw inspiration from certain west wing characters, their positions are changed to suit them-- so basically, at the beginning of this fic, at least: ham is communications director, eliza's his assistant, burr is deputy chief of staff, somehow, angelica is press secretary, and john is deputy communications director. washington is president, currently running for reelection against fellow virginian james monroe.
> 
> just assume alexander is in Flirtations at the very least with the entire senior white house staff plus some.
> 
> also: imagine the lmm cast, if that wasn't a given.
> 
> also living in dc is hell don't do it. take it from me i live there.
> 
> enjoy!

“Where are Alexander and Burr?” Angelica asks quietly towards the end of Washington’s speech. Eliza whispers back, “The cornfield.”  
“The cornfield?”  
“They’re talking to whoever owns the farm. Thanking her, I think?”  
“Can you get them? Speech is wrapping up in five, we’re already late for the next stop.”  
“Okay.”  
“Actually,” she says, “Leave Burr. Wish we lost him in Tennessee.”  
“Don’t be rude.”  
“I’m not _wrong_.”  
“You never are. See you in the motorcade?”  
“We’re in different cars, I think?”  
“Aw,” Eliza says, and pouts for affect.

Eliza slips out, quietly as she can— people are too transfixed by the damned president to notice her, thank God. The corn around her seems to tower over her— she’s usually hyperaware of her height anyways, but nature _really_ doesn’t need to emphasize it. After about five minutes of searching, she spots— rather, hears— Alexander, behind a truck. 

“Yes, Burr, we get it,” he says, “You’re voting for Monroe.”  
“Why would I be working on this campaign?”  
“Why is Jefferson in our cabinet? No one knows.”  
An unfamiliar voice cuts in, “Can we get back to my proposals—?”  
“We’ll bring them up to the president,” says Burr, in a voice Eliza recognizes as his “probably not, actually,” voice, “But I can’t promise anything. We immensely respect your volunteer work, and your dedication to the campaign.”  
“You sound like a robocall, Burr,” says Alexander, rolling his eyes.

Eliza decides this is the most opportune time to cut in— Burr’s not mad enough to start firing back yet, and Alexander hasn’t quite found his groove. (Oh God, Alexander would hate the use of the word groove.)

“You two,” she says, gesturing behind her, “Motorcade.”  
“All I’m saying,” says the farm’s owner, Celia something, ignoring Eliza completely “Is y’all should consider subsidizing farmers more. Because, y’know, you campaigned on it last time. Could win you this state.”  
“We’re never gonna win this state,” says Burr, “Sometimes that’s how it goes.”  
“ _I_ didn’t campaign on it last time. Washington made us, actually.”  
Eliza says, “Alexander.”  
“And it’s not like—“  
“ _Alexander,_ ” she says, glaring at him, “We have to leave.”  
“Sorry, Betsey here’s just worried because we lost two of our men in Kentucky.”  
“They were _women_ , and it was _Tennessee_ , and have you heard from either of them? I think they might be dead.”  
“They’re actually back, now,” chimes Burr.  
“There's no way you guys could stay a little, catch up with the campaign at the next stop?” asks Celia, blowing a strand of red hair off of her face.  
“Next stop’s our last for now. Straight to the plane to D.C. after… Unionville? We goin’ to Unionville, right?” Eliza nods, and makes a “hurry” gesture.  
“You have voters here, I swear,” says the woman, “Stay awhile.”  
“We’re not winning Indiana,” says Alexander, shrugging. Eliza is past impatient. She taps her foot, glares at both of them.  
“Why’d you come out here, then?”  
  
Burr shushes Alexander before he can speak. Eliza starts walking but—

“Oh no,” she says, and stops dead in her feet.  
“Lighten _up,_ Burr,” says Alexander.  
“This _is_ lightened-up me.”  
“Look,” says Celia, “Write off Indiana, but don't write off farmers.”  
Alex is about to start on “sure, it’s bad for farmers, but what about the _cities_ ,” when Eliza covers his mouth with her hand.  
“We lost the motorcade.”  
“She’s right,” says Burr, to the other two.  
“Shit!” Alexander says through Eliza’s hand.

It takes another five minutes for Eliza to get a volunteer on the phone and say, “Hey, a few of us are maybe stranded in the middle of Indiana, just so you know, okay, thanks, bye,” because of course they’re put on hold.  
“Can we call an Uber?” Burr asks, and then he corrects himself, “Indiana farmland. Can’t call an Uber.”  
“There an extra car today? Local volunteers?” Burr asks.  
“We got rid of the extra car. And the only local volunteers here now are… Celia, and the other owners. Right?”  
“Yep,” says Celia, and she pops the p.  
“Great budget cut, Hamilton,” and then, whispered, “How the hell did you major in econ if you’re gonna pull this shit.”  
“Not my decision, actually.”

Celia says, with a smug look on her face, “We have a soybean diesel car. Could show you how we get things done over here.”  
“Soybean diesel?” Alexander mouths, and Eliza shakes her head at him.  
“We’d love it,” she says, and smiles like she isn’t feeling a thousand tons of stress.  
Burr and Alexander are thrown into the back of a pickup truck, with some thirty-something woman with a neatly styled bob who introduces herself as Kitty. 

(“My wife,” Celia clarifies to Eliza, riding shotgun, “She built the car, actually.”)

Twenty minutes into the ride, the car starts slowing down, because of course it does.

  
“Gas station is about a thousand yards out,” Celia says, opening the door when the car eases into a stop. Alexander is looking like he’s on the verge of screaming, and Burr is laying down, his head in his hands.  
“Diesel,” says Kitty, “That station doesn’t has diesel.”  
“It’s twenty-sixteen, and there are gas stations without diesel,” says Eliza, “This is fine, this is great.”  
“Where are you from, again?” asks Celia, with a tone of rudeness that Eliza doesn’t care for, especially relating to that question.  
“Albany.”  
“City folks just don’t get it,” Burr says, still laying down, impersonating some ad that Eliza remembers John sending out to half the staff. Alexander, meanwhile is pacing, After a minute of thinking, he holds his hand up to propose something.  
“Alright,” he says, “So we missed Unionville. That’s fine. Great. We can deal. Etcetera. The president has his speech, we’re just the weird looking people behind him. We’ve got a little over an hour until the plane leaves, and Angelica will notice, by then. She’s probably noticed now. Your sister is a gift, Betsey, God, I love her. Anyways, I think, keyword, think, we can make it to the plane if we call a volunteer and have them pick us upat the gas station. You two can have the… ugh, what’s it called? The.. the tow truck! The tow truck can meet you there.”  
“We’re not getting a tow truck,” says Kitty, “We’ll hitch, get diesel at the farm”  
“Illegal,” says Burr, “Also, who—“

A pickup truck drives by, and Celia puts on an accent Eliza hasn’t heard her use. More southern than midwestern. Although, Eliza isn’t great with accents.

“Johnny— can you drive me and Kit back to the farm? Truck ran out of diesel,” she throws a smirk at Aaron.  
“Of course,” says the man, “Who’re… these?”  
“We work for the president,” says Alexander, a little too proudly.  
“Didn’t vote for him and don’t plan to anytime soon,” says the man, gruff, and he turns to Eliza, “You ridin’?”  
“No, I’m with them,” says Eliza, “But thank you.”  
“No problem, baby,” he says, and Eliza feels the slightest hint of anger seeping into her, but instead pushes it away. She doesn’t need to yell at anyone, today, especially not for something so inconsequential as a nickname.  
“Look,” says Kitty, “I know Cee was saying this, but, pay attention to us, okay? We’re just as worthy as people anywhere.”

And they drive off. Just like that.

Aaron picks up his phone and calls the Indiana campaign office, tells them to send a volunteer. Apparently, William will be with them in about thirty minutes.

“This is fun,” Eliza says, feigning as much enthusiasm as she can, “Roughing it.”  
“As the only person here who’s ever, quote unquote, roughed it, Bets, I can promise you that this,” Alexander gestures around them, “Is far from that.”  
Burr glares at both of them.

They loiter, for a while, in some empty lot. 

  
Eliza can’t reach anyone by phone, not even Angelica. She thinks of calling John, but Alexander points out that it’s his day off, and he’s probably asleep. Which is probably true. Burr argues that John never sleeps, but Alexander gives a knowing smile and says, “Yeah he does. He looks like he’s dead when he’s asleep. It’s terrible. I think I have pictures?” he says, and scrolls through his camera roll. Eliza knows he won’t find it quickly— last she checked, he had about three-thousand photos. She also knows not to ask how he knows what John looks like when he’s asleep. Alexander’s life is Alexander’s life. And she doesn’t need to know every aspect. It’s not necessary, she tells herself, it’s fine.

“They don’t have service,” says Eliza, after eight more attempts of calling Angelica, and then three calls to Hercules, both of whom are definitely in the motorcade right now, “And my texts aren’t sending. Because of course not. Because we’re in the middle of nowhere. Which is fine! Everything’s great!”

When William shows up, ten minutes later than expected, Eliza is first surprised by his age, (“Seventeen,” he says when Alexander asks how old he is,) His car is worn down, but it _does_ have a full tank. She talks school with him— before the White House, she _was_ a high school teacher, and he’s intelligent and curious. She admires that. He goes on about biology for five minutes, as he drives. Eliza knows nothing on the subject, and hardly cares about it, but it’s sweet, and it’s better to listen to that than Alexander and Burr’s policy debate of the hour, which has, as usual (Eliza is so sick of hearing them go at it in the bullpen, honestly, don’t they have jobs), sunken to the level of petty insults and, “Well which one of us got into Princeton?” and, “Which one of us switched parties simply to get a good job on the Hill?” Eliza almost chimes in that her sister worked for a Republican when she was a teenager, but holds herself back. It's no use, at this point.

“When does the plane leave?” asks William (“Call me Will,” he says.)  
“One sharp,” says Eliza.  
“One sharp eastern or one sharp central?”  
Conversation stops very suddenly, then, with a realization.

“Park the car, Will,” says Burr, quietly. William complies.

Alexander’s first response is to jump out of the car and start yelling about time zones and— “shouldn’t there be _notifications_ ,” and “Daylights Savings is garbage, by the way, completely useless and I hate it, and you can tell the damn Chief of Staff that he can shove it up his ass, by the way.”  
“That’s not going in any speech, right?” asks William.  
“The other writers will edit it out,” says Burr, and after a moment, “Probably.”  
He pauses, for a seconds and says, “But I agree, honestly.”  
“Miracle of the day,” says Eliza at the same time Alexander runs over, hair disheveled, and says, “I’m fine. I’m better now,” and then, “Oh God, I’m supposed to have a meeting with POTUS thirty minutes after the plane lands.”

He picks up his phone, starts dialing. Eliza ushers him into the car, and William starts driving again.

“John,” says Alex, sweetly.  
“Put him on speaker,” Eliza yells, impulsively. Alexander complies.  
There’s staticky moaning, and then, “I just woke up, man.”  
“I need you to go to work.”  
“But _why?_ ”  
“Burr, Eliza, and I got left behind by the motorcade because of course we did, and time zones exist, which we all forgot about, and so. Missed the plane. Can you make my three-ten meeting?”  
“Y’all got left behind?”  
“Yeah, twice.”  
“With _Burr_? Man, I am so fuckin’ sorry—“  
“You’re on speaker, John,” says Burr.  
“I know, Aaron,” John says, “Can you give me to Eliza? I wanna hear this shit concisely and not by my sworn enemy.”  
“He’s joking,” says Alexander to William, “Mostly.”

John sounds hoarse, over the phone, but he still sounds good— his voice is, admittedly, the most soothing thing Eliza has heard today. He asks for a rundown on the meeting’s content— basically boring PR stuff, but the president had been acting weird about it, so there might be a surprise. Washington is _terrible_ at holding in surprises, everyone knows this. There’s usually a betting pool on what he’s doing whenever he gets that certain tone in his voice. Once, Eliza won twenty dollars from Angelica because she guessed that Washington would announce that he and Martha were getting an official White House cat. 

“I can do this, yeah,” says John, “Thanks Eliza. You’re the best of humanity. I’ll take notes, Ham.”  
“Love you,” croons Alexander, in a tone that Eliza isn’t sure whether to take as a joke or not. She hangs up as he continues to draw out the “you.”

After a few minutes of silent driving— Eliza feels that the casual joking of White House staffers might have confused William, a little,— the car pulls over at a diner. 

“You said you were hungry,” William says to Burr.  
“Thanks.”

They get looks, in the diner. They’ve gotten a lot of looks in Indiana.

“Those boys gonna make trouble?” asks the woman (short and middle-aged, with hair right out of a sixties period piece,) at the counter, “I own the place, and whenever that boy—“ she points at William, “Is here, there’s an… issue.”

“Ma’am,” says Eliza, as sweetly as she can (and she is, in all honesty, running out of sweetness today,) “We just need to eat. We won’t be a bother.”  
“What do you want?”  
“What do you recommend?”

The woman glares, and then Eliza says, her tone considerably darker, “We’ll have four cheeseburgers. No onions on one of them, my friend is allergic.”

“I’m your boss,” says Alexander, and Eliza mouths back ‘She won’t believe that.’

The burgers are flavorless. Burr tires to get CNN on the TV, but he’s stopped by some guy who wants to watch golf— which gets Alexander started on how golf is a _pointless sport._ Burr tells him to calm down, and William watches in awe.

“Is this what work is like?” he asks.  
“It’s worse,” Eliza responds, “I love it. You should apply to schools in DC, I could probably get you an internship. I had one on the Hill when I was your age, they’re not hard to secure—“  
“Um,” says William, quietly and then, “Thanks, Ms. Schuyler.”  
“You can call me Eliza, if you want.”

He smiles at her.

“Angelica,” says Burr, at his phone ringing, “Hamilton, she says to stop by her office… Angelica. We’re not there.”  
He smiles.  
“None of us. Me, Hamilton, your sister. We’re still in Indiana.”  
He puts the phone down. Angelica’s laugh blasts from the phone anyways.  
“Are you all alright?” she asks, eventually.  
“We’re fine, Ang,” says Eliza, “We’ll be back in a few hours.”  
“Good. How’s Indiana?”  
“Very… Indiana. No other way to describe it.”

They stay in the diner for too long, finish their burgers, get milkshakes (Alexander insisted, he has _needs_ , Betsey,) pay the bill, (the woman still glares at them on the way out, Eliza glares back.) 

Alexander gets a text from John, about _big surprise when you get back A, smiley emoticon with a caret nose and three parentheses for the mouth_ , and he furrows his eyebrows at his phone’s screen when he reads it to the car. He pauses towards the end, like it’s incomplete.

“Dios mío!” says Burr, unaccented, with fake enthusiasm.  
“Can you try and pronounce it?” asks Alexander, “It’s not hard.”  
Burr rolls his eyes.  
“My phone just died,” says Alexander, “By the way.”  
“Mine died in the diner,” says Eliza, “Burr?”  
“Twenty percent.”  
“Damnit.”

They keep driving— it seems to take forever. Eliza didn’t know the state of Indiana had this much traffic, save _maybe_ Indianapolis. Which, Eliza supposes, is where they’re headed. They must be close, now.

“Train station’s in about a mile, I think?”  
“I thought we were going to an airport?” says Burr.  
“Mr. Hamilton said he didn’t like planes. And it’s cheaper anyway.”  
“S’true.”

(She never understood that fear of his, but she’s never understood Alexander completely anyways. She doesn’t think she ever will. That doesn’t make her care about him any less.)

Train tickets are easy to secure, but nowhere near cheap.

“It’s an eighteen hour train ride,” says Eliza, but not intentionally out loud.  
“Eighteen hours.”  
“Battery life?”  
“I have a charge-case so. Forty percent and still charging.”  
“I never thought I’d ever say this,” says Alexander, “But God bless you, Aaron Burr. You are worth every single bad aspect of your personality, if only for your magical battery life. Please tell me you won’t play brickbreaker on the train.”  
“I’m practical, Alexander.”  
“I once had a meeting with you, and you spent the entirety of the time playing brickbreaker, while I talked for ninety minutes.”  
“Number one, I can’t believe you paid enough attention to realize someone other than yourself was there. Number two, once, you started drawing unicorns on a draft of the State of the Union. Don’t be a hypocrite. Unicorns.”  
“The most noble of animals,” muses Eliza.  
“They _are,_ Betsey, we’ve been _over this_.”

They have. Eight different times. 

“Anyways,” says Eliza, “William. Thank you so much for the driving and for being so politically active despite your age. Email me if you end up going to school in the District, alright? The campaign should give you gas money.”  


He nods, smiles, and leaves. Eliza is worried about him. She worries about most people.

The three hours of the train ride are defined entirely by Alexander writing (thank God he carries his laptop around, and thank God for on-train wi-fi,) and reading everything out loud.

“I wonder if Monroe has spies on here?” Eliza asks, jokingly.  
“Monroe isn’t competent enough to have spies anywhere, much less a train from Indianapolis. I don’t think he’s even heard of Indianapolis.”  
“He’s not some hick, Hamilton. He’s from NoVa. If we’re gonna use southern stereotypes, might as well apply them to our candidate, who’s, y’know, from Richmond.”  
“He’s definitely something that rhymes with hick, though,” says Eliza, realizing how unfunny it is the second it leaves her mouth, and reaching out for a high-five anyways. Alexander returns it.

A man in the seat next to theirs tells them, looking at Burr especially, despite him being the quietest of all of them, to calm down. Alexander tells him they’re doing official White House business, and, don’t you want to see how your country is run up close?

“I saw you on CNN,” says the man.  
“Wonderful. When? And on which show? Because some hosts paint me so unflatteringly—”  
“You’re a condescending asshole, and you represent everything wrong with liberalism.”  
“Love it,” says Eliza, “You are practically made of straw. Alex, let’s get back to the speech for… Montana.”  
“We’re losing Montana.”  
“You’re losing my state too,” says the man, without clarifying his state.  
“Half our cabinet’s from there. I think we’re fine.”  
“Maybe more, looks like,” whispers Burr into Eliza’s ear, reading some push notification on his phone. Eliza reads over his shoulder and gasps.

**from Angelica Schuyler, to you, A.Ham, John Laurens, BFranklin:** _MORRIS IS RESIGNING. You people need to tell me things! I heard from Maria Goddamn Reynolds. btw: best coffee places???_

**from John Laurens:** _POTUS has narrowed down replacements to two. one would lose us this damn election so. basically down to one candidate_

“Madison,” adds Burr, “Too inconsistent and inexperienced to do anything. But Jefferson would recommend him.”  
“And the other?”  
“No hints. Probably someone who’s the polar opposite of Madison, knowing Washington. Could be anyone.”

Alexander is still butting heads with the man across from them, seemingly unaware of their conversation. He often reminds Eliza of the sun— so far away, but so loud, and passionate, he gives her headaches, he hurts her eyes.

“You don’t even _know_ how wrong you are right now, oh my God. My dog—“  
“You don’t even have a dog, Alexander,” says Burr, “Get back to writing.”

Alexander’s laptop dies at hour four, and his pencils all break by hour six.

“You want some ibuprofen? I know your hands cramp up when you handwrite.”  
“I have my copper glove things.”  
“Those don’t work,” Eliza says, because they don’t. He complains about them constantly.  
“You got them for me for Christmas.”  
“No, Lafayette did,” she reminds him, “And he said they were for Chanukah. Take some ibuprofen.”  
“You’re right,” he admits, after a minute, “Best of women, and all that.”  
“Never forget it.”

By hour ten, Alexander and Burr have fallen asleep on top of each other, Alexander on Burr’s shoulder, and Eliza has stolen Burr’s phone to take as many pictures as possible. (His password is 8436. Theo. Which is the cutest thing Burr has ever done, having his password be his daughter’s name, but it’s also so perfectly in character, in that it’s so easy to guess that it’s laughable. It’s better than Alexander, who uses no password whatsoever, though, she supposes.)

She goes through his camera roll, eventually, out of boredom (He’s still, magically, at sixty-eight percent battery, even after the charge case died.) Burr’s photos are mostly candid shots of his daughter, cheesy photos saved from Facebook, which Eliza didn’t even know Burr had, and one selfie. She sends a friend request to herself, and tries to go to sleep.

She wakes up at hour fourteen, to Alexander once again arguing with the man next to them.

“You took us over, now you want as little to do with us as possible? Is that how it works?”  
“I wasn’t implying that you aren’t American,” says the man, and Eliza, still half-asleep, is pretty sure he did.  
“Alex,” she says, “I’m going over to the food car to get coffee. Do you want to come with?”  
“I’m busy, Betsey.”  
“Alexander.”  
“We’re not done talking,” he says, jumping up from his seat.

She orders him decaf, to his chagrin, but he drinks it anyways. She gets herself hot chocolate, because she really is not in need of a caffeine crash today. 

By hour sixteen, the man next to them has left, and Alex searches himself on Twitter to see his probably rant, which isn’t actually probably. He’s using the browser version, because Burr says social media is pointless.

“You have Facebook, though,” says Eliza, and his eyes widen.  
“You didn’t—“  
“I didn’t post anything. I friended myself.”  
“I hate you.”  
“And yet you couldn’t live without me. Also, Alexander, did you know that Burr owns one entire Kanye West song?”  
“Which one?”  
“Don’t you _dare._ ”  
“Stronger. Obviously. The rest of his library is just Miles Davis, Beyoncé, and the Les Mis soundtrack. Two versions of it.”  
“I also have three Chopin songs,” he sounds defensive. Eliza laughs.

They end up at Union Station thirty minutes earlier than expected, in the middle of the afternoon. The city is colder than Eliza remembers it being when they left. She usually prefers it this way, but her coat isn’t heavy enough.

“I’m calling Franklin,” says Burr.  
“Don’t. John and Angelica probably told him where we are. Just tell them we’re in the city.”

They emerge from the station with shitty fast food in their hands and presumably looking more exhausted than their collective usual “very exhausted.” 

“Okay,” says Burr, “Don’t kill me.”  
“I’d never kill you Burr, so long as you continue to have a phone case that charges your goddamn phone.”  
“I’m flattered. But I don’t have my metrocard.”  
“Are you kidding me?”

So they call an Uber, the driver of which responds very poorly to “drive us to the White House, please,” because “fuckin’ tourists.” None of them bother to correct her.

When they finally get there, which takes another hour because of hellish traffic, they’re greeted by Angelica. She’s laughing, and Eliza runs up to envelop her in a hug.

“How do you work with both of them all the time?” she asks.  
“How do you work with _one_ all the time?” Angelica responds, and then she points at Alexander, “Peach Fuzz. The president wants you. And finish up fast, because I need to know what happens before my date tonight.”  
“That nickname doesn’t even work anymore. I have a goatee, Angelica. A goatee.”  
“I can see it. I just wanna make sure you never forget it. Go talk to George.”  
“I’ll tell him you called him George.”  
“And he’ll believe you.”  
“No sarcasm, there. He always believes me. Right hand man, remember?”  
“In that case, I'm his left hand woman.”  
“Ugh. Not even funny, Schuyler."

Burr has slipped off, on the phone (fifteen percent battery,) with his sister, who’s been babysitting his kid, apparently. And again, who knew Burr had a sister?

She makes her way into the bullpen she’s normally condemned to, and finds a sleep-deprived John Laurens, drinking the sweet tea he keeps in the minifridge in his office.

“You up for working at Treasury?” he asks, yawning, “Or for working for me? I’m not sure how this works.”  
“You’re kidding.”  
“Nah. Wish I was, though. How were assholes one and two?”  
“Themselves. How was your day off?”  
“Very not-off. Thanks, by the way.”  
“Their fault.”  
“I could guess. Happy beginning of the week, by the way.”

They have so much work to do. 

**Author's Note:**

> everything around me is named after james monroe save me
> 
> 99% of this fic is inaccurate
> 
> questions? comments? just wanna say hi? leave a comment, or hmu on tumblr @oceanicairline and twitter @farmerefuted


End file.
